


these are your good years.

by withersake



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Fluff and Mush, Gen, May the Author's Gift to Themselves Be the Ability to Post More Than Once, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Ugly Holiday Sweaters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:27:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28455336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withersake/pseuds/withersake
Summary: “Merry Christmas, Metroplex.” He can feel the way Trypticon unfurls themselves in their message, the glyphs becoming sharper, clearer with each note that he decrypts to receive. They must have been dozing or resting when they acknowledged his introductory pings. “I don’t suppose you also come bearing gifts?”( Or how Metroplex and Trypticon enjoy the holidays. )
Relationships: Metroplex & Trypticon, Metroplex & Windblade (Transformers), Trypticon & Trypticon’s Sparks
Comments: 5
Kudos: 19





	these are your good years.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rinovarka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rinovarka/gifts).



> **Pairings:** Metroplex & Trypticon. Metroplex & Windblade. Trypticon & Trypticon’s Sparks.
> 
>  **Warnings:** None.
> 
>  **General Notes:** Part of the Secret Solenoid Exchange 2020! I hope you like your gift, Rinovarka. IDW were fools for killing off Trypticon in the lead-up to the Optimus Prime finale so slight AU where Trypticon survived the attempted group attack on Unicorn. Merely got hurt and now needs to recover from their extensive injuries but they’re a champ.
> 
>  **Current Notes:** The prompt is as follows: Any Continuity (IDW chosen by author): _Metroplex and Trypticon (Platonic): Them having their own sort of Christmas together, maybe with matching sweaters or a cup of hot energon, etc._

It was a comfort to speak with another Titan again. After all, it’s a miracle to still be able to speak with another Titan after everything.

Metroplex promises himself that he’ll share these sentiments with Trypticon **[ still alive - { emotion: relief. } ]** one day, to let his fellow cityformer know his gratitude and appreciation for their presence. He has been thinking about these sorts of things a lot in the past few days. He thinks he can afford the luxury of retreating to his own thoughts. He’s now functioning at above 85% capacity, allowing him to autorun some vital systems and networks without having to do constant sweeps and check-ins, fussing over every lag, every framerate drop.

With how the others are no longer… an option, given all that has happened, Metroplex most certainly counts his blessings whenever he opens his transmission beacons, pinging across the stars with certain that someone **[ else, understanding ]** would respond to his calls.

It never failed to make him rumble in contentment, always feeling a surprise and a delight bloom in his spark whenever he got back a reply. There’s something… assuring, he thinks when he’s able to pin down the word he wants to describe it. It’s assuring to have someone to now ping back-and-forth, to reach out across the signals, and have a response in return, for certain.

He stirs his systems awake, checking his internal chronometer on his HUD — the one that never turns off, no matter the situation, which has been both a blessing and a curse in the centuries — and sees it is the 24th of December on Earth. It is considered ‘early’ for both humans and Cybertronians, who are now adjusting to the shorter time cycles of Earth. 2:43 AM, numbers blinking on and off, on and off.

Though he's meant to be under stasis, conserving energy until the leaders of Earth can come to an agreement about his supply of energon, Metroplex sees he still has access to all his non-vital systems. It doesn’t take him long to remember why:

Windvoice **[ cherished ]** had retired for the cycle, quick to retreat back to her quarters after giving his console an affectionate pat before departing. She had mentioned that she ‘thinks’ she’s shut down all his non-vital systems, exaggerating her stretching and yawning while double-checking her tasks with a careful act of sleepy haste. Blackrock **[ acceptable, eventually(?) ]** has clearly had his effects on her.

His engines rumble in approval. Metroplex appreciates both of their efforts and takes advantage of it, as quietly encouraged.

He opens channels and grants himself access to communications, the lights from sensor panels from his lighting up with affection upon opening the main directory. How convenient that Windvoice was looking up certain designations before she left. He'll have to find her an appropriate **( fitting - [ options: useful? / charming? / simple? ] )** act of thanks when he has the chance.

Metroplex opens his pings and sends a greeting across the channels. Now stationed on Earth, slowly taking his time in integrating the internet to his systems, it’s become much, much faster and easier to send his invitations, his inquiries, his own voice that he feels like is being heard more and more with each passing day.

So it isn’t long before he’s greeted with a voice he’s been hoping to hear, since they parted ways:

“Merry Christmas, Metroplex.” He can feel the way Trypticon unfurls themselves in their message, the glyphs becoming sharper, clearer with each note that he decrypts to receive. They must have been dozing or resting when they acknowledged his introductory pings. “I don’t suppose you also come bearing gifts?”

Metroplex, after a moment of uncertainty, pings back with an apology. “Forgive me but… Christmas?” He’s sure it’s a holiday of some sort, with how it’s used as a greeting. “What is that?”

In most of their interactions, Trypticon has proven to be short and curt when it came to their words, a mixture of distrust with the factions the two Titans had ended up siding with during the Great War and Trypticon facing the growing pains most Titans feel when raising their first batch of flares, protective and half-ferocious. He readies himself for the message, half-expecting Trypticon to snap at him for not knowing, losing patience with him quickly.

Thankfully, it seems they’re willing to help him in this blind spot of his. “It’s an annual festival held every winter, specifically around the month of December There are many ways humans celebrate their holiday but it seems they put an emphasis on kinship and ‘good tidings’ as they say.” There’s a way the glyphs are framed that reminds him of the way Marissa Faireborn moves her shoulders when she speaks, her face screwing into a certain expression, amusement at the face of irony. “They celebrate it by gathering together to exchange gifts in recognition to those they know and care enough to procure said gifts.”

“I see.” Intrigued by the premise and wishing to learn more about it (and wishing to not find himself flatfooted again), Metroplex adds a reminder in his list, the ever-growing one where he has a collection of personal tasks and things to do for his own sake(, when he has time to call his own). He adds ‘Research Earth holidays, particularly their cultural context.’ to it, adding a **{ _soon_ }** subglyph as emphasis for his future-self.

(He makes sure to put it above watching the soap operas that Blackrock insists he ‘give a shot’, but below the request to read and review Thundercracker’s latest screenplay on Marissa Faireborn.)

“I prefer the other holidays that they partake in during the winter months. Faireborn and the rest who reside in me like this iteration the best,” Trypticon continues. They now take the time to send a wave of discontent, exaggerated and theatrical in its execution. “Most of my interiors reflect their excitement for the season, unfortunately.”

Metroplex sends out a ping of acknowledgment and thanks, a bit distracted as he begins pulling up the necessary information from certain encyclopedia and archive sites. (The ones he deemed the most trustworthy, of course. Earth has a staggering database to trawl for, even for his processing powers, and he has quickly learned how to filter out disinformation, misinformation, and everything in between.

And to think he’s only integrated 35% of what is the known global system communications. Strange but busy creatures, humans.)

… Ah. He’s getting a better picture of this holiday now. “Gifts… Grand gestures and acts of charity… Focusing on those we consider important and treasured… Yes. We have something similar to this back on Cybertron.” Chosen One Day is what it’s called. An accidentally magnanimous act from Starscream **[ may he rest amongst the stars, a sharp cry across the night ]** in an attempt to curry adoration and favours for himself. It had worked out for everyone in the end, even for himself. Windvoice and Chromia had left him little packages. 

He sends an information packet to Trypticon to allow them to review the ‘traditions’ established by Starscream’s decree. It comes complete with the video, obviously ending abruptly, and it extracts the chortle he was hoping to hear.

“Yes. That certainly sounds like Christmas. Though I suppose you have the luxury to not be stuffed full of messy decorations.”

“I do not, actually,” he says, unable to hide his laughter, his glyphs warm and bubbling. His amusement rumbles through his frame and he hopes no one on the streets trips because of him. “My inner chambers have been decorated quite merrily thanks to the direction of both Windvoice and Blackrock.”

“Lies.” There’s more humour than heat in the accusation, a sort of tired fondness that makes Metroplex ache deep in his struts. Something about can’t help but remind him of Cam—

No. Not now. Only the good times must be focused on. They’ve been through much and, for once, he wants to be selfish.

“Truths, nothing more,” he assures Trypticon. To prove his point, and to further distract himself from the thoughts that linger at the surface of his memories, Metroplex takes his time in taking the perfect captures from his surveillance cameras:

Ropes of Ivylace and holly twining down his halls. Glowing orbs, the colours soft and merry and lovely in their hues of blues, hovering in the cool airs of his chambers. Curious bundles of green plants, bursting with bright white berries, are hanging from the arches and doorways.

He sends them over and it isn’t long before he gets a response. Trypticon pulses back bemusement and with an emotion that they’ll no doubt deny is mirth. “They’ve decorated your cortex center as well. With holly and streamers too!” Are theirs red and gold like his, fluffy and flaky and full? Metroplex may never know. “I suppose you could say we are now fellow ‘matchies’, as Thundercracker would say.”

Metroplex can’t help but warm up at the strange little word that Trypticon uses, the casualness of saying it to him, of all mechs.

It’s nice to see Trypticon so… relaxed. Alive is the word, he’s forced to admit. In the earlier days — **{ in the wake of what they had thought was the end of all worlds (and it was, and it was) / in the wake of worlds falling and all becoming one }** — they had been so quiet. They had been so still while being hurriedly repaired and cared for by the surviving Camiens on Earth, the humans who had an inkling of Cybertronian technology and sciences.

The odd listlessness reminded him too much of Vigilem, in the wake of his **[ deserving {yes? no? (i should have killed/saved you) }** ] punishment. It’s nice to see them full of comments and quips and life. A far cry from the almost-grey mech he had to carry back in his arms as he and others fell back, their pulse weak, their field fading, their optics dim and unseeing.

He takes a moment to appreciate it before sending a quick transmission to acknowledge Trypticon’s words and sees that ah.

They’re still going: “… and I must admit, I’ve never seen this type of decoration before.” A few seconds pass before Trypticon sends back a screencapture. It’s one of his, Metroplex notices. Only it has been edited to highlight the motes of pale blue lights that can be found dotted throughout almost every image he had sent. “Very charming. Are these decorations from one of the colonies?”

“Yes, they are. Those are thanks to the touch of Windvoice.” He cannot deny the affection that seeps through his emanations, the way his projected thoughts turn to gold, rosy-tinged when thinking of her **(and Caminus’)** optics. He will never deny it if he can help it. “It’s tradition to put these up in one’s homes to show unity and close ties with their loved ones. She says every mote represents every mech who wishes me well.” And there are many in his rooms, glowing a steady glow that gives him a sense of peace he hasn’t felt in a long, long time.

Trypticon comes to the same conclusion, “That’s quite a lot of little lights in quite a lot of rooms.” They sound pleased for him and Metroplex is touched by that. “Do they represent specific mechs or is it merely the intention that counts?”

“They do represent mechs.” Metroplex debates whether to say this but research shows the holidays, of both Earth’s and Cybertron’s (now his?), encourages an appreciation for others, making it known through either actions or words. “I believe one of them is meant to represent _you_ , my friend.”

There is a moment of silence. Not really silence, no. There’s a pulse from Trypticon. Evident, there, and undeniable. It’s steeped, tangled with feelings Metroplex is still trying to decrypt when he hears Trypticon say, at long last, “I suppose it makes sense to add me there. I am appreciative of your presence. It would be awfully boring to be the last known living Titan stuck on this miserable mudball of a planet.”

“Even with your little flares?” Despite the rush he feels in him, something they both can feel thinks to their link, he can’t help but tease Trypticon on the Cybertronians they have created from their own being. He had heard from Windvoice about that particular adventure. Of their fierce protectiveness for their sparks and their clear pride of seeing them grow and change.

“Especially with my little flares. Sideswipe, the menace, thinks it’s funny to place Christmas-themed stickers all over my walls.” They send a subglpyh of irritation when using Sideswipe’s designation, one too faded to be genuine. “Stickers. He may find it funny but doesn’t have to deal with the adhesive, now does he?”

“No, he does not.” The name will always make Metroplex feel sorrow and joy at the same time. He knows Sunstreaker has a little sacellore shrine in honour of his departed sibling. Metroplex personally approved the use of his own energon to keep a drip-feed of a remembrance bowl running at all times. “If you like, I’ll be happy to take them for a little while and allow you. I’ve been interested in meeting your flares for some time.”

“We’ll see.” Their way of saying, ‘No.’ to him. For all they may grumble over their sparks and the antics they will bring them, Trypticon is possessive of them and will see their development through. “Now— I think that’s enough talk between us bots. We’re both awake. We’re both functioning. We’ve been approved as separate countries by the governments. I say this is a cause of celebration.” Trypticon continues, casually enough, “I believe the consumption of alcoholic beverage is time-honoured tradition for humans, no matter the holidays or the occasions. It makes sense we try to this out. We can say it’s the first step to show our willingness to integrate with the humans.”

“Are you hinting to what I think you’re hinting?” Metroplex can’t help ask, brimming with interest and faux scandal. 

Trypticon is coy enough to send a transmission bundled in shock but twined with something sly and cajoling running through an undercurrent string. “Only if you agree,” they assure him, giving him plausible deniability. How sweet of them. “I do think we deserve this. We’ve been through a lot this year. Faireborne is turning a blind eye to my chatting with you. So is your precious Windvoice. Might as well take full advantage of it.”

It does not take him long to come to a decision.

“Only if you play some of these ‘carols’ I am reading so much about.” And have been hearing so much, if the drunken hooting from some of his citizens is to be trusted for the last few Earth days. Metroplex had noted that the ones who keep drunkenly singing about a ‘John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt’ were all stationed on Earth, one point or another. He is a popular man, this John Jacob. “Between humans living in you and an enthusiastic cultural connoisseur like Thundercracker, I have a feeling you have heard some of their holiday songs. You must share them with me.”

Trypticon grumbles but puts up no real fuss. “Fair enough, Metroplex. Calibrate your filters and I will try to find one of the less inane jingles they have littered across the internet.”

Metroplex does so with relish, savouring the lines of codes he inputs, the shift he feels happening deep in his guts, his pumps. It’s been so long since he’s allowed his filters to convert his energon into engex, to allow his protocols to fall lax enough to not immediately see this as a threat to his being.

It’s a process he’s disavowed to do until it was safe to be so vulnerable, so open. He was certain there would never be a chance, the last time he forced the command dormant. Not when the War threatened to tear worlds and lives apart, leaving them (and him) in a distressing cycle of perpetuity.

And yet… and yet here they are— They’ve been much under only an Earth year. How strange the wheel of time moves forwards and backward for him and fellow Titans, rolling to and fro, to and fro.

Mechs have come and gone. Faces have died and returned. Homes have been lost and found. All seemed lost and yet they are now working to become one, to some capacity.

Yes, he thinks to himself as Trypticon begins to play music through their open channels. It’s been a strange year and one that’s brought more joys and sorrows he’s ever known.

Yes, he thinks to himself as he enjoys the warmth that seeps in his lines and the music floats through the channels. The **[man singing in the song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pvA7-EjaSPI)** croons to them a Merry Christmas, assuring them to have their hearts be light for their troubles will be out of sight.

It’s a good message. It’s a message he wants to carry far beyond the holidays, far beyond this year alone.

Yes, he thinks to himself as the pair of them begin to settle in a comfortable quiet, an enjoyable peace. It was a comfort to speak with another Titan again. After all, it’s a miracle to still be able to speak with another Titan after everything.

Metroplex will make sure that **[ cared / brave / alive (still alive alive alive!) ]** Trypticon will know it from here on out.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Secret Solenoid and I hope the new year treats everyone with a touch more kindness and gentleness.


End file.
